


Lost in Translation

by WolfesPuppies



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Horror, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Pre-Canon, Vomiting, only mentioned - Freeform, why is tagging so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29049162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfesPuppies/pseuds/WolfesPuppies
Summary: “Please don't travel by tag again.”“I have no intention, believe me.”In which Santi has to Translate via tag, and has a miserable time doing so.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Lost in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I'm not 100% happy with this, but if I don't post it now, I never will. Also you can probably tell which bits I wrote months ago and which bits I wrote this week. Ah well!
> 
> Relevant quote: 
> 
> "Is it worse than the Translation Chamber?"  
> "Infinitely worse. We use tags when there is absolutely no escape. I've survived it, though. You probably would."  
> Ink + Bone, pg 242
> 
> Enjoy!

Silence. The soft sound of pages turning, stylus on page, gentle sighs, the occasional cough. The quiet footsteps of Scholars getting up to return books, or find a new one, or to finish up for the day. Soft pops as travel bags of books are tagged and Translated into the room – there is clearly a retrieval mission going on somewhere - then spirited away to be properly recorded in the collection. The Archive of the Great Library of Alexandria is always like this, the bastion of knowledge that the world looks to for guidance. The quiet stillness isn't oppressive but peaceful, a million miles away from the hustle and bustle of the street outside.

The calm is broken by a short, sharp scream.

Heads snap up, some irritated, some concerned, all startled by the intrusion into their quiet. They're greeted by the sight of a soldier of the High Garda on his hands and knees, a Translation tag attached to his uniform, grey and shaking and retching before managing to master himself enough to gasp out words.

“I need a Medica team, there's three injured to come through, and four others.” he rasps, and Christopher Wolfe finds himself on his feet without realising he'd stood up as he recognises the voice of Niccolo Santi.

There's a beat of absolute silence, punctuated only by Santi's harsh breathing, before everyone snaps into action. Not all Scholars go to war zones, but they all spend at least a couple of days training with the Garda, and they are all aware of the dangers inherent in what they do. Tables are moved to clear a space, Medica teams are called, and Wolfe finds himself unable to move, staring at Santi still on the floor, two points of still in the storm around them. Santi had been in France, Wolfe recalls, had sent him a Codex message only that morning saying they had one last hideout to investigate and then they would be coming home.

“Burners.” Wolfe says, and it breaks the spell, letting him stride across the room in a swirl of black silk and drop to one knee next to Santi. “Nic. It was Burners, yes?”

It takes a few moments for Santi to realise he's been spoken to, and a few moments longer to realise what's been said, and by whom, but finally recognition alights.

“Chris. Yes. Burners. An ambush.” Santi finally manages to push himself up to his knees, and his hands immediately go to his Codex strapped in a box on his belt, pulling it out to scribble a message in his untidy handwriting, made even more illegible by shaky hands.

Santi's Codex chimes at the same time as three Medica burst into the room.

“Sergeant, what news?” The oldest one says, a woman with thick grey hair and piercing blue eyes. Santi immediately straightens his back at the question, ready to deliver the relevant information, and Wolfe stands and takes a step back, As unwilling as he is to leave Santi alone, he also knows the soldier won't allow any comfort for himself until he sees everyone home.

“Three injured, two with Greek Fire burns, one of those with glass shard wounds. Another with a broken leg. Four more besides, all coming via Tag. One has only Translated once before.”

“Send the injured first, then the newbie, then the others.” Santi nods and opens his Codex once again to impart the instructions before bracing a hand on his knees and the other on the floor, as though he's making to stand up. He makes it half way to one knee before his face loses what little colour had been regained and he retches again, grunting as he falls back on to hands and knees, and Wolfe finally notices the bruising and swelling at Santi's collarbone, apparently at the same time as one of the other Medica, a young man who clearly hasn't worked with Santi before.

“Sergeant, you're injured. Let me-”

“Leave it.” Santi almost growls even as he heaves again, stomach contracting as it tries to bring up nothing.

“But-”

“ _Leave it.”_

The older woman, Sims, Wolfe recalls, shakes her head at the young man. “He won't let you, not until everyone else is here. The Black Cobras are a tough lot, he can weather it.”

The man looks hesitant for a few seconds, but then his attention is drawn by a soft  _pop_ and another short scream that gets cut off suddenly as the person who issued it promptly passes out. Wolfe doesn't blame them. The burns are extensive, and the wounds from what presumably was the bottle exploding crest high over one eye, narrowly avoiding the socket. One hand is clawed inwards, and it doesn't take Wolfe more than a few seconds to put the picture together, and be horrified.

“Sanders. James Sanders.” Santi supplies, only half an inch away from where the unfortunate man appeared. “he-” he has to stop here to breathe through another wave of nausea before continuing, “He's allergic to penicillin.”

“Noted, thank you. If you could move...” Sims hints, and Wolfe takes it upon himself to step forward and offer his hand to Santi, making sure to take the other man's uninjured arm. 

“Come on Nic.” Santi allows himself to be pulled to his unsteady feet, and almost trips and falls, only steadied by Wolfe's firm hand. It takes a full fifteen minutes for the other six members of Santi's company to come through, and by the end of it he is listing heavily to one side on the chair Wolfe insisted he sit on. It's only when he sees all of his soldiers safely in the hands of the Medica that Santi allows his own injuries to be treated.

“Broken collarbone,” is the quick diagnosis, followed by “and Translation sickness, obviously, compounded by the use of a tag. You'll feel awful for a good couple of days.”

“I don't think I could feel any worse.” Santi confesses, leaning his head back against Wolfe, stood behind him.

“That'll linger.” Sims remarks with a wry look as she manoeuvres Santi's injured arm into a sling. “That stays on for at least four weeks. I'll send some more information of exercises in the next couple of weeks. Now go home. Your soldiers are in good hands” Sims adds when she sees him looking hesitant. “You'll get updates as and when we have them.”

-

They'd renovated the bathroom in their little house a few years before, and had included a pull-down shelf that could double as a seat in the shower, for those times when one or the other couldn't stand – not always due to injury. It proves very useful now as Santi catches his toe on the frame of the shower and almost collides with the wall if it weren't for Wolfe holding and guiding him to sit down. Wolfe washes Santi slowly and gently, sponging away the smoke and soot and stench of Greek Fire and blood, washing his hair, even taking a brush to scrub under his nails, and only when Santi is leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, does Wolfe turn the water off. Santi opens an eye in what is meant to be protest but doesn't even register as one. Wolfe duly ignores it and pulls Santi to his feet once more.

“Bed. Do you think you can manage something to eat?” The very thought has Santi blanching white, and Wolfe quickly backtracks. “Okay, no food. That's fine.”

It takes them a few moments to work out the best way to lie in bed – lying on one side would mean Santi putting pressure on his injured shoulder, lying on the other would mean facing away from Wolfe. Eventually they end up with Santi propped on Wolfe's shoulder, and Santi is asleep within seconds.

He stays that way for the next 12 hours, in a deep enough sleep that Wolfe can get up and go to the bathroom, make food and return without disturbing him in the slightest. He even sleeps through his Codex chiming four times, which is unheard of. When he does finally wake, it's with a groan, and Wolfe looks over from where he's sat next to him reading a book.

“Morning,”

“Ouch.”

“Well that answers my next question.”

Santi manages a one-sided smile as he levers himself up to lean against the headboard. “I am never doing that again.”

“What happened?”

“You got it right. Burner ambush. The bottle was disguised, Sanders didn't realise it was Greek Fire until he picked it up.” Santi sighs, a shuddering thing that shakes his chest and doesn't seem to help in the slightest. “He picked it up, it exploded, and suddenly they were everywhere.”

“How did you break your collarbone?”

“I think that was the tag actually.”

“The tag?” Wolfe has heard stories before, they all have, of people coming back not quite right, missing ribs or chunks of flesh or even entire limbs, but he'd assumed that's all they were, stories.

“I came through first because I wasn't injured. The tags aren't designed for human bodies.”

They both sit in silence for a few moments, absorbing this knowledge. “A broken bone and feeling like I've been hit by a carriage is a fair trade-off, I think.”

“Please don't travel by tag again.”

“I have no intention, believe me.”

_

It takes the rest of the day for Santi to feel even close to normal, and another two before the aches stop entirely, and a full week for all of the company to be declared out of danger – that they all survived is considered a minor miracle, and there are hints of commendations for the whole group.

Santi and Wolfe are having breakfast in their garden one morning, enjoying a slow start to their day when Santi's Codex chimes. He opens it distractedly, but then his hand stops half way to his mouth.

“Nic?”

Santi blinks once, twice, and finally realises he's still holding a piece of toast, placing it back down on the plate before silently passing the Codex over to Wolfe.

**Letter to Sergeant Niccolo Santi, from Lord Commander Gray**

_Due to your actions during the recent Burner ambush you foiled, I am pleased to announce your promotion to Captain. The ceremony will take place when you have all recovered from your injuries. Congratulations, Captain, this is well-deserved._

“Captain.”

“I read it right?”

“You read it right.” Wolfe grins, wide and unrestrained. “Captain Niccolo Santi. It has a nice sound to it.”

“it does.” Santi grins too. “Maybe translating by tag was worth it.”

“You're never doing it again.”


End file.
